


Where I Go From Here

by Aspire_to_Inspire



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Heavy Angst, Keith (Voltron) Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-22 17:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspire_to_Inspire/pseuds/Aspire_to_Inspire
Summary: Keith grapples with his team and himself as he tries to live up to everything he's supposed to be when Shiro vanishes, leaving him behind once again; when the Black Lion chooses him despite his dread; when Shiro returns, changed in ways that bite at Keith's vulnerabilities; when he leaves Voltron as just a flawed leader standing in its way; when the only thing that might save countless lives is a sacrifice Keith finds himself all too willing to make.Sometimes he thinks the best thing he can be is just...gone.And this time, maybe permanently.Set throughout Seasons 3 & 4.





	Where I Go From Here

It didn't start when Shiro disappeared. It was further back than that, further than Shiro saying Keith had to get his head on straight, or that he wanted Keith to lead Voltron. It went back to cold nights in a desert, miles from human contact, when the loneliness got to him and he determinedly shook it off because he just couldn't.

He couldn't be someone people wanted _._

Things had gotten better with Voltron. He'd endured “team bonding” with his usual approach: just contribute his best and let everyone take it or leave it. But the longer they fought together, the more Keith felt inside an _us_ instead of outside a _them._ He was still considered a “stupid mullet” by Lance, an “emo loner” by Pidge, and occasionally a “grumpy pants” by Hunk; Coran still talked _at_ him more than _to_ him; Allura still maintained a sort of royal distance, warm or commanding only as propriety dictated. Yet, through some evolution he didn't understand and wouldn't dare try to control, he began to think of these people as his new home.

It confused him.

Shiro kept insisting that Keith could be more: a friend, a brother, a leader. A valuable, non-screwup person. But Keith's new success made him wary, not confident. He'd gotten here by precarious chance and feeling in the dark. And yet, the longer Shiro, the other paladins, the Alteans, and Red stayed with him, the more stable—the more _wanted_ —he felt. How ironic that he felt more grounded floating through space than with his feet planted on Earth.

And then Shiro was gone. Shiro was _gone_. _Shiro was_ _ **gone**_ _._

It hurt like hell. Shiro was his brother. Shiro was his guiding hand. Shiro already left him once. Shiro thought Keith could lead. Shiro was _wrong._

The pain of it filled Keith's mind until he could only think of stopping it. Shiro had to come back. Or Voltron had to end. Or someone else had to lead. Keith could never stomach taking Shiro's place only to fail, to hurt his family. He would be cast out for his shortcomings or, even worse, be kept on the team as a lasting detriment out of sheer lack of options.

When the Black lion hummed to life around him, Keith begged it not to. This wasn't about being anxious or self-deprecating: he was _desperate._

_Please don't say that Shiro's really gone. Please don't ask me to do the impossible. Just how many mistakes will it take before you see sense and join everyone else who's ever written me off?_

But it was too late. So Keith did pilot the Black lion, and he did lead Voltron, and he did mess up just as horrifically as he'd known he would. Quitting—either by leaving Black or piloting her with cowardice—was not an option. And the others were still counting on and supporting him. Even doomed to fail, Keith owed it to them to _try._

Inch by inch, he moved forward in his new role. He learned how to make the call and then cope with the aftermath. How to see disapproval or annoyance from the others as the correction it was meant to be instead of an implication he should head for the door. Real leadership, _Shiro's_ leadership, was still miles beyond him, but slowly, Keith began to hope that maybe, with a much less antagonistic Lance at his right hand and Allura's rising talent in Blue, his inches would be enough to hold Voltron together.

And then Shiro was back.

Seeing the locater blink to life made Keith's heart drop like an anchor, jerking his headlong plunge to a welcome halt. Keith could handle taking the lead—maybe even do better than handle it—if Shiro was there to guide him. And then, once Shiro was recovered and ready, Keith would be free. Everyone's expectations and disappointment would stop strangling him by turns; his glaring flaws wouldn't choke him so badly.

More importantly, his family would be _safe_ once Shiro made it whole again.

But Shiro was different this time. The first time he'd returned he'd been all soldier, neatly addressing or dismissing his own mental and physical damage as priorities dictated with a stability Keith doubted he could ever emulate. This time, though, Shiro seemed colder, more removed. Keith told himself he was being ridiculous, because Shiro had still opened up to him about what he could remember, still acted grateful that Keith had found him, still showed up on the bridge glad to see the rest of the team.

The important thing was Shiro was still the Black Paladin. As Lance had said, Shiro would be taking back Black so he could lead, and Allura would still pilot Blue because it would be foolish for her not to. And though Keith missed Red, Lance's transition, unlike his, had been smooth, and he fit seamlessly into the team dynamic. Besides, Lance had already shown that, however willing he was, leaving the team would be a severe blow to his...Pride? Ego? Self-esteem? In any case, Keith was certain Shiro wouldn't just snatch Black away and leave him hanging. It would all work out somehow.

But then it didn't: Shiro couldn't pilot Black. Keith swallowed his initial panic and took the lead, certain that Shiro would know exactly how to help when he needed to. But when Shiro's voice came over the comms it was like a slam on Keith's brakes. He'd never felt shut down like that by Shiro, not even when he was piloting Red. _It's because you're the leader,_ he told himself. _He's got to stop you faster, harder, before you do real damage._ Or maybe Shiro had just finally realized his mistake. As they all stood around him, apologetic, every one of them siding unwaveringly with Shiro, Keith was certain: he may have started believing they wanted him as a paladin, but he'd been an idiot to think _anyone_ would ever want him as anything else.

So he didn't understand why Shiro still wanted him to lead. Why Shiro came to teach him a little lesson about prioritizing when Keith was already pretty sure he had: Allura had said the asteroid ship was a danger to multiple dimensions, so Keith had gone after it first. But Shiro had said no, and then Allura had agreed, and Keith had been so confused why suddenly he was the reckless moron again when he'd been trying so hard. He thought if he just talked to Shiro he could make him understand, but Shiro's words made him feel so small, crushing him in and in to fit this new, unfamiliar shape. Since the first rescue from the Garrison, Keith had never stopped sensing the brotherly affection Shiro had always broadcast in his direction—but now, that radio frequency was missing, and Keith didn't know why.

It could just be the trauma, he reasoned. But then, the first time Shiro had been gone for a whole year, forced into the arena, lost his _arm,_ and he'd still been so warm, so _Shiro_ , when he'd come back. _What could possibly have happened that was bad enough to make him hate me now?_ a slightly bitter voice whispered inside Keith's head.

When he heard that whisper, he marched to the training room, summoned a gladiator three levels higher than he'd ever attempted, and went at it with everything he had, not caring that it wasn't enough to keep him from getting beaten again and again. How _dare_ he try to make this about himself. How dare he act as though Shiro was somehow obligated to make him feel loved. Who knows what had happened to Shiro out there, or what he needed to do to cope with it, for the second time no less? He swung his (not his, not really, never was) bayard harder and faster. This wasn't about Keith, except it was, because it was _Keith_ who refused to properly belong, _Keith_ who failed his team regularly, _Keith_ who needed to stop having so many stupid desires in the way of what was necessary.

The gladiator suddenly dropped, swinging low at Keith's feet. Keith jumped it, intending to bring his sword down on the droid's exposed neck as he landed, but it was quicker, kicking Keith solidly in the stomach and sending him tumbling across the floor to fetch up against the wall. The gladiator advanced, staff raised, and for a moment Keith expected it to hit him again, before the light in its singular eye died and it went still. Laughter bubbled in his chest, only failing to leave his mouth because there wasn't any air left in his lungs. He probably had scores of bruises from this thing, but at least _it_ knew when to let him stop. “End training sequence,” he wheezed, and the droid dematerialized with a digital crackle. He had to face facts. Things weren't better with Shiro back. They were worse.

Keith snorted to himself. Even thinking that felt like betrayal, but it wasn't really, because he didn't blame Shiro. He never could.

He got to his feet and collected the dropped bayard. The pain and exertion had burned through his emotional excess of fear and frustration, leaving him with only those feeling he could control, the ones of loneliness, vague sadness, and something sharp, dangerous, and unnamable. He'd lived with them all his life and could easily ignore them now. Everything was a lot simpler when he ignored his feelings.

 _But it hurts,_ whispered something traitorous that Keith squashed down immediately. Simple was more important. Simple meant he would know what the right choice was. Simple meant he could protect what mattered.

This was very simple: Shiro needed to lead. Lance and Allura needed to stay. Pidge and Hunk needed to remain stable.

And Keith needed...to be needed some other way. He would just have to figure out what that was. He could do this, he told himself. Simple.

In the relative peace that followed Lotor's disappearance, Keith tried his best to convince Shiro to try again with Black, then tried to understand why he wouldn't. Shiro's answer was always the same: the Black lion chose Keith. Keith pleaded with the lion itself for the reason why, but it wouldn't answer him, most likely because he wasn't a real Black Paladin. The thought stung so badly he had to force himself not to go running to Red's hangar, looking for the sense of connection he'd lost with Black—and his whole team.

He tried to view it as an objective fact: he was a patch job, so he would do that job as best he could. Shiro patted Keith on the head for cakewalks like choreographed shows only to turn around and overrule him every other moment on important missions. When he tried to argue back, Shiro was so cuttingly precise and correct that he made Keith seem stupid, ungrateful, and power-hungry, even to himself. Keith swallowed it all like a pill, because Shiro was still his brother and the team was still his family. It wasn't their fault.

The missions themselves were becoming more uncomfortable for Keith, too. He'd known that Voltron was considered a hero, but it was a different kind of hero now, the kind that built and nurtured instead of destroyed. Keith couldn't smile like Lance and Coran or inspire confidence like Shiro and Allura or be constructive like Hunk and Pidge. Whenever some alien life-form shook his hand in thanks or looked up at him with hope, Keith felt like a lie. What felt truer was the suspicious glances the aliens shot openly at the Blades of Marmora. “I'm Galra, too,” was all it would take for them to look at him with disapproval as well. Then he'd be right at home.

Keith took the first chance he had to get Kolivan alone and ask to train with the Blade. He'd expected resistance or refusal, but Kolivan only stared down at him searchingly for a long moment, before giving him a curt nod.

“You've proven yourself,” he said. “As pilot and combatant. But understand that when you are with us, you are not a paladin. You are a Blade, faceless and nameless. Can you learn to follow that code?”

Something stirred inside Keith, hungry for the challenge, starving for validation. Here was a mission that actually fit someone like him: a fighter, a loner, a Galra. The risks involved should have frightened him, but instead that sharp, unnamable thing in his gut cut through him with a kind of dark excitement at the thought of danger. _It's worth it. I'm just an outcast with a knife. Might as well point it in the right direction._

He realized that Kolivan was almost smiling.

“Yes,” the Galra leader said thoughtfully. “I believe you can.”

When Keith told the team, their initial reaction was to be happy for him. Pidge and Lance nerded out about secrets and spies and ninjas, while Hunk cracked jokes about Keith turning purple from excess Galra exposure. Even Allura was on board, expressing confidence in Keith's ability to pass whatever tests Kolivan had in mind. It was Shiro who was concerned. Could Keith manage his time between the Blade and Voltron? Would Keith only be training or going on missions? How dangerous would those missions be?

Keith watched the faces of the others fall, twisting with uncertainty and worry, and he rushed to mitigate the damage with promises. He would put Voltron ahead of the Blade; he would be properly trained first; the missions wouldn't be any more dangerous than anything they'd already done. They believed him; Keith wasn't sure he did himself.

For a month after that, whenever the Black lion wasn't needed, Keith trained. Kolivan introduced him to more of the Blade members, and they taught him the finer points of handling his luxite blade. They showed him how to better move his body with efficiency, stealth, and viciousness all at once, and it felt so good, so _natural_ that Keith wondered how he'd ever managed doing anything else.

“Shame you don't have a tail,” one of the more talkative Blades had said, flicking the forenamed appendage in obvious challenge. He and Keith went four rounds before another Blade—a tail-less one—put a stop to it by pinning Regris and forcing him to admit he was winning _only_ because he was a meter taller than Keith and had over ten times the experience. There was no bonding, no discussion of history or how anyone was feeling that day. Keith knew that this was because any one of them could be lost at any time and they had to stay objective, not because it was ideal. Yet, after the constant strain of failing to connect or ruining the connections he already had, he couldn't fight the relief that came with this kind of freedom.

That is, until one day he walked into the dining room of the castle looking for breakfast. He'd just gotten back a few hours ago and tried to catch a little sleep, so it was the first he'd seen of the others in two days. Pidge, Hunk, and Lance told him Shiro and Allura were already up on the bridge, and Keith thought he sensed something off about how they talked and looked at him. When Pidge and Hunk pushed back their chairs, Keith caught Lance's attention and asked if he'd done something wrong. Lance rolled his eyes hard.

“Nah, man. It's just a little weird how we never see you anymore. I mean, sure, you used to spend most of your time brooding or on the training deck anyway, but you were still, you know, _around_.”

Keith bristled. “It's not like I'm goofing off in my free time. And I'm always here for the missions, aren't I?”

“Dude, _I know._ I'm just saying that our team kinda needs to be a unified front right now, and that's a little hard to do with our leader spending all his down time on a...I dunno, a side hustle.”

There were a thousand things Keith would have snapped at Lance for, but the word “leader” had him wanting to throw up, so he just swallowed hard and looked away.

“Okay.” He wondered if it was the easy surrender or the defeated tone that made Lance cock his head at him funny, but Keith got up and headed to the bridge, wanting to bury himself in the day's mission rather than face more of...that.

When he'd started, all he'd been certain of was his aching _need_ to contribute something of value again, but now that he'd been on several of their smaller missions, he was letting himself consider becoming a fully active member of the Blade. It wasn't an entirely pleasant option: he painfully missed the way the team and the lions had made him belong to something deeper than a mission, warmer than an organization. But his poor performance had already weakened those connections so much he would only be selfishly wasting time if he tried to preserve them. Becoming a Blade was the right choice. It _had_ to be.

Keith started to wonder if he wasn't a Blade because he was Galra; maybe, in a fatalistic sort of way, he was Galra so he could be the one who became a Blade. Lance was too light-hearted and undisciplined to belong to the order; it would have sucked the bounce right out of him. Clever Pidge, though a phenomenal asset, would have been smothered by their uncompromising rules. Hunk was too gentle a soul to be comfortable with all the cloak-and-dagger. Allura was too invested in this conflict and the legacy of her people to subordinate herself to someone else's agenda. Shiro would have been amazing—intelligent, skilled, keeping to the code—but he was a soldier at heart, not a spy. There was too much honor and goodness in him that would have been trimmed away.

Not Keith, though. No, Keith was a stick in the mud, a rebel who needed boundaries, a scrappy fighter, a natural outcast, and not at all filled with decency like Shiro. If there was anyone to prune from the team, Keith was the natural choice, and he couldn't deny how the Blade appealed to him, teasing that part of him that had silently craved a bond with his other home species.

Keith knew he was running a big risk with this plan: if Shiro truly couldn't return to the Black lion, then all Keith had succeeded in doing was neglecting the team. But he couldn't stop himself from continuing to push, because he'd been here before: if he didn't, eventually they would, as one by one any vestiges of friendship and camaraderie were buried by their worry and anger. The Black lion was the only thread left that kept Keith from being completely cut off from his family.

Then that fateful mission severed that thread with an easy _snick._

He'd been bracing himself for this for months, letting things hurt him little by little as they became apparent, and now here they were all at once. The way they all looked at him resentfully was a punch to the gut, and how smoothly Voltron fell into place without him was a slap in the face. There was no one behind him, supporting, or in front of him, protecting. He stood alone, and, with a calm that bordered on numbness, defended himself.

It went so perfectly. They were concerned when he debased his own leadership in favor of Shiro's, saddened when he told them he'd be leaving, and so loving and kind and _happy for him_ when saying good-bye, promising to be there when he needed them. And he just smiled, because he'd needed them the past few months—he needed them _right now—_ but he could already see how much better this was. Without Keith, Voltron was finally whole again. Without Voltron, Keith finally had value again.

But this proved he had been right all along. That they had understood so quickly showed they had been thinking the same things. Now that he wasn't needed as the Black paladin, he was back to being unwanted as Keith.

Not one of them had asked him to stay.

This time, he wasn't able to resist the temptation to visit Red, half-expecting her barrier to appear when he got too close. It didn't.

“Hey, Red,” he said quietly. “I've...come to say goodbye. Bit late, I know. Sorry I never properly said it when I started piloting Black. I just...wasn't ready. I thought maybe I could come back. I really wanted to.” He was at her paw now, and, hesitantly, he sat down, leaning his head tiredly against her foreleg.

“I wanted to say thanks for always being there when I needed you. You were my first real friend in all this, and I know you loved doing all that stupid, reckless stuff just as much as I did. Don't deny it!” he blurted with a laugh before he remembered it wasn't his place to hear Red anymore; he wasn't a paladin at all now, much less hers. He hung his head.

“I...I've lost all my other friends now, Red. I know they all still care but...it's hard to love someone when they leave. And I always end up leaving...” He blinked twice, swallowed hard. He couldn't break now. Who knows who might walk in and see. Who knows if he'd be able to put himself back together.

Then it came: a big, rumbling warmth swelling up all around him. Red was purring, a powerful, all-encompassing sound, but she wasn't happy; she was sad.

And that's what pushed him over the edge, forcing big, hot tears down his cheeks. Because she didn't care about right or wrong, should or shouldn't. All she knew, all she cared about, was that he was hurt, and she poured out how sad, how sorry she was. She expressed what none of the others had:

That she didn't want him to go.

He choked out a single sob, then grit his teeth and held his breath, trying to keep calm as the tears ran themselves out. And Red was still there, still purring softly. He waited a couple minutes more, until he was sure his face was clear and his resolve was solid. Then he pressed his forehead against Red's cool metal skin and said his last goodbye. Her mental touch lingered on him as he left, and his heart thanked her for that, before he boarded a pod and left the castle for the last time.

Being with the Blade of Marmora gave Keith time to remember all the lessons he'd learned a long time ago, lessons he'd tried and failed to discard during his time with Voltron. Lesson one: his feeling didn't matter. The right thing was the right thing, no matter what comfort or acceptance he had to give up, no matter what fear or pain it caused him. He still wasn't very good at controlling his emotions, but he'd figured out years ago that his feeling about anything were footnotes no one could be expected to consider.

Lesson two: once weighed, consequences didn't matter. That first bit was tricky for Keith, who tended to charge in no matter how much he _knew_ he should think first, but the Blade of Marmora usually took care of that for him. Once they'd planned a mission of “acceptable risk,” Keith couldn't be intimidated by the dangers: no support but his knife and no lion mechs, particle beams, or teammates who would rescue him if he got into trouble. If anything happened to him, that was just the way it was. He'd trained himself not to care, to instead focus on the sharp slice of excitement from that nameless emotion that responded to danger.

The third lesson proved to be a rather glaring problem, as Kolivan had a rule of his own in the same vein that went like this: the mission before the individual. At first glance it was a straight-forward call for personal sacrifice, but Kolivan stressed that the individual was _part_ of the very mission they were to uphold, which led to a intricate loop tallying risk against necessity, emphasizing caution while expecting casualties. Keith admired the thought process, but the knowledge that any of his comrades were in danger while _he_ wasn't was something no amount of reason could make him accept. Only _he_ should be expendable: _his_ feelings didn't matter, what happened to _him_ didn't matter. Because the real lesson he'd learned all those years ago had nothing to do with missions being the _first_ priority and everything to do with himself being the _last_ —always was, always should be.

He tried never to argue with Kolivan about it because he respected him a great deal, but he couldn't help defending himself when the Galra tried to lecture him. Keith's risk assessment was just as valid as Kolivan's; the Blade leader just gave too much weight to Keith's safely. Keith saw no reason but selfishness and sentiment not to risk his life for even the chance of saving someone else's: Voltron functioned perfectly without him, and, as Allura had bluntly pointed out, the Blade of Marmora _had_ functioned perfectly without him for millennia. Besides, here, unlike in Voltron, every Blade was a qualified resistance fighter, prudent enough to make their own choices about Keith's heroics, and independent enough to not be endangered by them.

Bit by bit, the parts of Keith no longer protected by the care of his teammates were chipped off. He caught them as they fell and tucked them away: the jokes and games and goofing off, the shared discussions, meals, and battles, and that sense of family that had been so real and precious, but always a little too good to be true. As long as he remembered, as long as he held onto it, it was safe. _They_ were safe.

He didn't talk to them much. Most of the time he was on mission, and when he wasn't he was training or catching whatever sleep he could, so it wasn't like he had much to say or time to say it. From what he caught of their shows, Voltron was pretty busy, too. He couldn't really tell if the team was enjoying these shows or merely tolerating them, but he was just glad they were out there being heroes: safe, adored, together...all the things they deserved to be in ways Keith never would.

It was Pidge who reached out. She set it up so she could text him if he adjusted the setting on his communicator a certain way, ensuring he only got messages when he was at the base. Keith wasn't really comfortable conversing over text—he had enough trouble relating to people when he still had tone and body language to rely on—and Kolivan frowned on any “recreational” communication that might endanger their secrecy. But Pidge only seemed to want to gush about her brother and shoot him the occasional update: Lance thought it was stupid that he had to form Voltron's sword when his bayard was a gun; Shiro had a huge fanbase and had been asked to autograph someone's tentacles; Coran _might_ have gone slightly insane but it had kinda been worth it?

Keith smiled when he got one of her messages, then spent the days or weeks between them struggling not to message back asking something stupid, like if they actually missed him. He knew they must—they were too kind not to. Why was it so easy to believe they didn't?

He was injured a handful of times and usually scolded for it, but also curtly praised on occasion for his commitment to each mission. He saw more Blades die, saw tension in every muscle of the survivors as they reported on those they had to leave behind. He was started from sleep by the phantom weight of Regris' body pressing down on him, along with every other death that landed on his shoulders, pressuring him to do better, _be_ better, to make their loss worth it. Keith began to think that the focus he had always chased with patience was better found here: distanced from comfortable distractions, motivated by threat of harm, urged forward by tragic-yet-commonplace sacrifice. Shiro probably would have hated the idea of Keith being subjected to such a thing, but Shiro wasn't here. And Keith wasn't always tactful, wasn't always smart, wasn't always calm or kind or good but quiznack it, he was _strong_. He could take this. And that dark sharpness that sometimes coaxed a smirk to his face when he was out there putting his life at risk convinced him he might even be _thriving_ off it.

Kolivan, difficult to read as he was, seemed to agree. Despite the distance of age and physical advantage between Keith and the other Blades, Kolivan was quick to recognize Keith's aptitude, holding him accountable but never holding him back. Even his disapproval of Keith's stance on self-sacrifice took a back seat to the importance he placed on Keith's continued work as an operative. Because of this, when Voltron and the Blade of Marmora began laying out plans for a decisive blow against the Galra empire, Keith bit his tongue to stop himself from demanding a role, and was rewarded by how readily Kolivan gave him the assignment regardless.

Despite the gravity of the mission, Keith couldn't deny his sense of exhilaration at the thought of working with Voltron again: their voices through the comms, their plan set into motion, their fight his fight. If it hurt to still be apart, he would deny it; if it would re-opened wounds to leave again, he could ignore that. If he could toss all that aside for this moment and just be happy with his family, he could prove his worth.

Every part of Keith felt honed as his blade, every thought as sharp and every movement as deadly as he fought the Galra, took control the cannon, aimed and fired on the enemy before any more rebels could go down. Even when they lost contact with Shiro and the others and that first cold slither of fear worked its way down his spine, he remained unshaken. He boarded and activated the Galra ship, called on Matt and his rebels, and told Coran to hold his position as insurance. He wondered briefly if _this_ was how it really felt to be a proper leader...but there were more pressing things to think about. Hanging back or not, there was no way that Galra fleet was doing nothing—not when its greatest threat had just vanished.

He was proved right when Shiro— _thank the stars he's safe—_ popped up in front of him and explained: Naxzela, the bomb, Haggar. Again, the icy fear pressed close, but the weight of necessity had settled too crushingly into his chest to be dissuaded. This was his responsibility, all of it: the Blade of Marmora, Voltron, the rebels, the refugees, Kolivan, Allura, Coran, Matt, Shiro, Lance, Hunk, Pidge, and their homes and families still back on Earth. The burden of care fell to him.

That shield had to come down.

Then it happened: that dark thrill suddenly thrust upward, cutting through his stomach, his lungs, his heart, until it pierced his mind with a single thought.

“Maybe not with our weapons...”

And once the thought was there, there was no hiding from it. The fear keened in his ears, but that's all it was: a noise, drowned out by the aberrant certainty that pulsed like pain from a wound, making his heart thump hard but steady against his ribs. His body was already in motion, his ship already coming round, the shield already filling his vision.

_I'm going to die._

Maybe that's why all of them—Regris, Antok, Thace, Ulaz—had died: so he would live long enough to die here, now, and save all those people. Maybe he always ended up alone so there would be no one left broken when he was gone. And if he could just ignore how much he _didn't wanna die_ for another few second then they would be safe and everything would be okay and _finally_ everything would be _over_ because they didn't _want_ him, they didn't _need_ him, and they _never would,_ except to do this _one_ _**simple**_ thing. _.._

His hands were firm on the controls and his eyes were shut tight against the crash and the pain and whatever comes after and he is made of fear and ferocity and misery and determination and elation--

Then the fire blazed up in front of him and he yanked his craft off course, taking in the sudden destruction and the ship that had wrought it. In the stillness, his mind swam with thoughts of _Lotor_ and _can't trust him_ and _didn't detonate_ and _they're alive, they're alive, they're alive..._ before it all came to a dead stop with the tiniest whisper of _I'm not dead._

Everything drained away—the blood from his face, the feeling from his limbs, the radioactive cocktail of emotions from his chest—leaving him cold, numb, and terrified.

He quickly punched at the controls, muting the outgoing mic because he couldn't stop gasping for air, his entire body shaking, clammy with sweat rapidly cooling against his skin.

What had he just done?

Logically, he knew what he'd just done, and he knew why he'd done it: stop the witch, disarm the bomb, save the planets. He should be relieved, even ecstatic, but instead of receding, the fear was racing even faster, lightning and razor blades under his skin, a thousand edges of panic even though the threat was gone. There was nothing to flee, nothing to fight, but he was still choking on the awful sense of horror he tried to swallow down before it drowned him. He scrambled for anything to hold onto, anything familiar that would help him escape...then something slid into place and he was angry.

He was angry because he could have done it. He could have and he hadn't, and he was still here, still useless and alone, still bearing the weight of lives worth more than his. It would have been easy. It would have been _over._

Matt called his name, asking if he was alright, and Keith scrambled to answer quickly before he could suspect otherwise. Matt knew what he had been about to do. Keith could only pray that he wouldn't bring it up, or at the very least wouldn't do so in front of the others. They would never understand what Keith himself could never explain.

Tears slipped down his cheeks and he slapped them away impatiently. He'd known what he was doing—but he hadn't wanted to. He was furious that he hadn't—but he was deathly afraid that he almost had. _Quiznack,_ why did this _hurt_ so much?

He turned his ship and followed the rebel fleet to the rendezvous point. He had until then to get himself under control. As always, the heartache inside him begged to be shared, unraveled, understood, so it could be in some measure dispelled. Keith would not afford himself that luxury, even if he thought it possible. He had to stop this constant wavering between desperately craving love and taking the course of action that denied it. He had to give up on it.

There was one small comfort: that cutting darkness that had now named itself— _self-hate—_ had sunk and settled deeper in his gut, assured that it would have another chance.

There would be other shields to bring down.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your kind attention. All feedback is greatly appreciated!


End file.
